


Timeless

by checkerbee



Series: Revhound Gods AU [1]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Ambiguous Relationships, Blood and Violence, Canon Non-Binary Character, Explicit Sexual Content, No Gender Headcanons Here, Other, Pre-Canon, Reincarnation, Revenant Has A Kink and It Is Blood, Time Skips, Touch-Starved Bloodhound (Apex Legends), Wraith Makes A Cameo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:34:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23665459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/checkerbee/pseuds/checkerbee
Summary: "I have been called many things by many people. God, goddess, devil among others, but you may call me Bloodhound if you'd like."Aka, an immortal gods au that no one asked for but here it is anyway.
Relationships: Bloodhound/Revenant (Apex Legends), Revenant (Apex Legends)/Original Character(s)
Series: Revhound Gods AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1722538
Comments: 16
Kudos: 45





	Timeless

He is only twenty when he is sacrificed at the stone altar of gods that he does not believe in. The curse of being a fair haired child he thinks, amused even as the sound of his blood dripping onto the ground reaches his ears. It pools like spilled wine, darker than he expected and he watches it, watches that bit of life slip away. In the beginning, when the ceremonial knife cut through his flesh, he was angry. And now, as his vision blurs, it shifts to rage, red like his blood but also burning like fire. 

When the knife enters his chest, scraping against the bone of his ribs in an agonizing way all he can hear are prayers and something beyond it like a growl. Amid the fervent pleas of his people, there is a voice. Neither man nor woman but dripping with sadness. 

"Rest," It says softly. "Your time is not yet over."

He laughs, no doubt startling the people around him, because he is dying. He's dying on a slab of rock in a cave, surrounded by sycophants and there is no time left despite what the voice says. So he laughs until he chokes on his own blood, his lungs seizing until they fail. He slips away to the sight of red eyes glowing at him from the darkness. 

When he next wakes, it is with a gasp. He fills his lungs with air until they scream, vividly remembering the feeling of drowning in his own blood. Somewhere to his left a raven squawks and he turns to meet its oily black eyes. It gazes back at him, tiny head tilting to the side as if in thought. Then it flutters away, coming to rest on the outstretched arm of the figure standing at his feet. 

He is still on the altar, but it is just the two of them now, although he's never seen this person before. They are fair, skin white like bone, with bright red hair that is laced with braids and beading and feathers framing a strong jaw. Eyes just as dark as the raven's watch as he sits up, the dried blood on his skin flaking into dust when he runs his hands over his chest. The wounds from the knife are gone and his brows knit in confusion before he looks back up at the figure. 

"I was afraid you would not wake." They say and it's the voice from before, a duality that is unsettling just as much as it is mesmerizing. "I have never brought a child here." 

"I died." He says, frowning at being called a child. He is a man as far as years go and they look no older than him, but they speak as if he is still young. 

"You are." They say and he startles as they continue. "I've brought you somewhere beyond death. You will be tired and hungry for a while, much as I am now. It is no small feat to pull someone away from the place beyond." 

"Why?" 

Their head tilts much like the raven's had. "I have existed for quite some time and perhaps I have gotten lonely." 

"Are you a god then?" 

"Would you be afraid if I was?" Is their response and he takes a moment to think their question over. He doesn't think he would, but he remembers the glowing red eyes that had watched him from the darkness as his life slipped away and a chill travels down his spine. 

"No." He lies and they smile, two sharp canines flashing from behind their lips. 

"I have been called many things by many people. God, goddess, devil among others, but you may call me Bloodhound if you'd like." 

"How long has it been since…" He trails off, memories flickering through his mind. Along with them comes the rage that he had felt as the knife cut into the flesh of his heart, but he quells it. He'll get his revenge in time. 

"No more than a few days." They say, stepping back as he turns and climbs off of the altar. His legs almost buckle, fingers digging into the hard stone to keep himself standing. They do not offer him aid, which he is thankful for, unwanting of pity. He recieves none, just simple guidance as he gets used to his new body. He looks as he always had, but he is stronger and faster than before, like the large cats that hunt in the forest surrounding his village. 

Time passes oddly now as well, what seems like days actually spanning into years. He discovers that he cannot die when Bloodhound pushes him from a cliff one day, canines flashing at him in a laugh as he falls. They meet him at the rocks below, jagged in a way that would have killed anyone easily, bones shattering on impact. He is unharmed though, unblemished and alive. 

He learns as time passes, trains himself to be something deadly, and watches as the loneliness in Bloodhound's eyes fade. They enjoy his company, enjoy having someone to talk to but he can't quite share the sentiment. He grows restless, wondering what happened to his murderers more and more with each passing day.

"The elders, do they live?" He asks eventually and when Bloodhound nods he resolves to change that, to ensure that they die bloody like he had. 

And they do, screams echoing into the night as he rips them apart as if they were the delicate petals of a rose. After he's done with them, he moves onto their families, reveling in his newfound strength, in the power strumming in his veins like a song. He stops when something like a howl cuts through the air, a screech that makes pain blossom through his head. It echoes, reverberating until it brings him to his knees, the sniveling wife of an elder falling into the dirt in front of him. 

"I did not bring you back to kill innocents." Hound's voice is a growl, feral with anger. "They were not the ones that wielded the blade."

"They did not stop it either." He says, meeting that anger with his own simmering rage. He ignores glowing red eyes as he cups the woman's face with a soft hand and there is gratitude in her eyes, a thank you falling from her lips because she thinks he will be merciful. He grins, sharp like a knife and snaps her neck as if it were a twig. She falls back to the ground and somewhere in the dark, a raven screams. 

When he looks up, the other god is gone and his anger flees with them, leaving behind a cold ache that he feels in his bones. 

He goes back to the altar and finds nothing there except a single black feather. It's lying innocuously on the ground and he feels judgement, heavy like a stone when he picks it up. It is delicate in his fingers, but when he goes to crush it, his palm is split open as if it is made of the volcanic glass that he used to gather as a child. Growling at the pain, he sits it back on the altar before leaving the cave altogether. 

He does not return to it, instead choosing to wander as years pass within minutes. After a century or so he begins to understand his creator's loneliness, but that only leads to anger now that they have abandoned him for so long. It is a punishment, he knows. A lesson he is being taught and he wonders if they will ever return. 

To pass the time, he meddles with the affairs of the people he finds in his travels, killing wicked men and women as some kind of penance. If Bloodhound notices, they do not appear, but occasionally he catches sight of a raven watching him from afar. It is during one of these times that something new happens, centuries after he came to be. He is carving the skin from a man that steals children away from their mothers and sells them, his screams drowned out by the bloodlust humming in his veins when he notices the shadows flickering around his fingers as he works. They climb up his arms until he drops the knife, flames eating away at his skin in a way that is pure agony until all of him is gone, replaced by black smoke and embers. He watches them drift away into the air, more burning in the core of him as horror bleeds into his mind. 

He catches the eyes of one of the everpresent ravens and leaves the man to bleed out on the ground as it takes flight, chasing after it. He keeps pace with the creature, realizing that he is nothing more than the shadows that stretch through the forest, and finds himself at the feet of the other deity. 

"You're growing." They say in greeting, as if it hasn't been hundreds of years, as if he is a child to be praised and he growls low in his throat. 

"What have you done?" 

"Nothing, but I can undo it if you'd like." They say, leaning forward to examine him up close. Their eyes are just as dark as he remembers, black pools framed by red lashes and porcelain skin. Then a hand is touching his face, fingers digging into the darkness of his flesh. The flame at the core of him roars in his ears, but instead of burning he feels coldness seep in. Slowly his human appearance returns, the shadows leeching away into Bloodhound's fingertips. They travel from there, scarring pale skin in a delicate black web until he pulls back from their fingers. 

The fire is still there at the center of him, smoke still flickering at the edge of his skin but he is no longer consumed by it. 

"I can teach you to control it." It is an invitation, but not forgiveness for what he had done after they brought him back to the world. Still, he takes it, accompanying them as they travel north and spending his nights learning to embrace the shadows on his skin. They tell him about the people that they have found, a culture of warriors that worship gods that do not exist, tells him of the Allfather and his children. 

"It's fascinating what they can come to believe in." They add after recounting the story of a serpent that would one day eat the world whole. It's all boring to him, especially when they spend their days watching over the people that Bloodhound has decided to take under their wing. The other god protects the warriors in battle and sends ravens as warnings, learning their language as years pass. Eventually an accent begins to curve around their words, a fact that they seem to delight in. It makes their dark eyes glimmer when they notice it for the first time and while he may not care for the people like Bloodhound does, he is entranced by the joy that they bring to the other god.

Eventually, he grows restless and finds himself wandering away for years or decades at a time. Bloodhound always greets him warmly when he comes back and he knows that despite their days spent watching over the Vikings, they are happy to see him, a balm to their existence. He has yet to find any other gods and for all he knows, Hound was alone before they brought him to their side. So he returns every now and then, tells them of the places he's traveled to and the cultures he's encountered and one day they leave with him.

…

The two gods tend to stay on the fringes of society, time passing around them in a steady stream. It's never for too long, one town blending into the next and over time he begins to hate the monotony of it all. None of the humans are interesting and if they are, they die too quickly for him to consider them any more than something lesser. Hound is different, ever curious of the people around them, of the things that they can accomplish while he only notices the darker things. Like the way they slaughter each other over such petty things. Or how some grow fat surrounded by gold while others die starving in the streets. They're like selfish animals, feral at the thought that they cannot have everything. Materialistic and vain. 

If only they knew that they were just sacks of flesh, bumbling around until they die. They all end up rotting in the ground regardless of how wealthy or virtuous or famous they are. He doesn't express these thoughts, knows that the other god would only frown and try to get him to see the good in humanity. So he lets them fester along with the resentment until embers flicker in the air around him. Bloodhound may not be a creature of light and virtue, but they do hold a respect for life that he lacks more and more with each passing decade. 

It comes to a head when Hound asks him to spar one day. They have the axe given to them by the Vikings in hand, the razor sharp edge of it alight with the same red energy that enters their eyes on occasion. He accepts, removing the scimitar that he'd taken to keeping with him at all times from its sheath. It's as beautiful a weapon as Hound's is, the blade dancing with his own shadows and the clash of the two coming together is akin to thunder breaking overhead. Hound is quick, movements graceful where his are efficient and brutal, and he longs to change that. He wants to see the other god bleed, wants to drag his fingers over pale, bloody skin. 

It's a dark thought but it guides him, keeps him on his toes until finally Bloodhound misses a beat. It is a small thing, a millisecond of delay and he takes full advantage of it, striking toward the other god's exposed arm. Clothing and alabaster skin part easily and Hound's eyes shift, scarlet light trailing past their temples as they growl. Neither of them expect to draw blood, unaware that they can be hurt or hurt each other, but now that he knows he can, he doesn't hold back. He forces the other god to fall back, forces them to give ground as blood trails down their left arm.

Somewhere behind them, a raven calls and Hound's head tilts before they step forward into his space. The axe comes between them, makes him hop back so that he isn't gutted but it still cuts into him, drawing a scarlet line over his abdomen. 

"You think me docile." Their voice is almost feral, breath loud in their chest but there is also something in their eyes, something not unlike his own bloodlust. They're enjoying themself, enjoying the fight just as much as he is. 

"I think you're weak." He replies honestly, knows that they do not want a lie, even if it makes their next blow harsh with anger. The axe cuts into his chest where his heart rests, through the skin and into the muscle underneath but he pushes through the pain and lashes out, drawing more blood with another cut. The smell of it is starting to hang in the air, heady and thick and for the first time in decades, centuries, he feels alive. 

The boredom that had festered over time is gone. His anger finally has an outlet beyond the humans that die so quickly at his hands and at the center of it is Hound, bloody and harsh. The facade of calm patience has slipped away, the complacency that he hates is gone as if it were a mask and to him, they're beautiful. 

Especially when he tangles a leg with theirs, bringing them to the ground as inky black eyes go wide. He follows, hands wrapping around a pale throat. He wonders if he could break it, snap it as easily as he had the elder's wife, but he feels the cold press of steel against his own throat. It's the axe, pressed between them as Hound stares up into his eyes in warning. If he tightens his hands, they will kill him. 

"You say I am weak because I find interest in their lives." Hound says, hands steady even as their chest rises and falls with exertion. "But you forget that that interest made you what you are."

He hasn't, he knows that he is their creation, their companion through this seemingly timeless life. He cannot forget, even if he were to leave their side until the end. If all life ceased to exist, it would still be the two of them and it is a curse just as much as it is a blessing. 

He tightens his hands and the axe draws blood, canines flashing at him in a growl. 

If he killed them, he would be alone. At least, until he figured out how to make others like him. Or they could end him here, leave him lifeless and forgotten until he is replaced with another once they grow lonely again. 

He loosens his grip and the axe is set aside as their hands come up to frame his face.

"I do not fear my end, be it at your hands or the hands of time. That is what makes me strong, although you may consider it weakness." They say and he sneers, tries to pull away but they hold him close, grip like steel. He wonders if they hoped that he would end their timeless existence just as he ended their loneliness, but he knows that they do not wish for death. They just don't fear it. Not like he had when the knife plunged into his chest, when he felt his life slipping through his fingers. 

They both want to feel alive in their own way. 

Pushing the thought from his mind, he gets up and Hound lets him, fingers slipping away from his skin like a kiss of farewell. He turns away, leaves them lying in grass that's littered with their blood.

"Would you like to hunt with me?" They ask and he pauses. 

He offers his hand and they take it. 

…

The other god enjoys hunting. 

It would be simple for them to find an animal and kill it, but instead they take their time in tracking it. They follow their prey, steps whisper soft among the trees and hair trailing behind them in scarlet waves. Sometimes it's for hours and sometimes it's for days, but when they do finally kill their chosen animal, it is always clean and painless. It is the same respect for life that they hold for the humans, but he cannot begrudge them this. Not when they drink their fill of the creature's blood and turn to him with a pink tongue licking scarlet off of their lips in such an inviting way. 

One day there will be myths surrounding them. Of beautiful creatures that live in the night and survive off the blood of the living, but those stories will never quite capture what Hound truly is. Still, he drinks as well and lets his wounds heal, watches as skin knits back together. 

Blood for blood, he thinks as the other god thanks the creature for its sacrifice. It cannot hear them, but he knows that it is another sign of their respect. Maybe it is faith, but the idea of that makes him laugh. Who would they pray to? 

He does not stay long after the hunt. Their fight has awakened something inside of him, something like hunger. It claws at his bones like a wild thing and he sates it with blood. He becomes an assassin and enjoys that for a time, even though he has almost no use for the money he receives. He buys clothes to blend in with other cultures and places to sleep while he's there, but beyond that, what does he need? 

Food isn't a necessity, although he does enjoy the taste of a few of the dishes that he tries. Sex maybe, but he is not gentle and simply put, none of the men and women that sell their bodies on the street or in baudy houses appeal to him. They are not like Bloodhound, unbreaking and just as strong as he is. Nor do they watch him with eyes like pitch or smile at him with the occasional slip of white fangs.

It's that thought that gives him pause one night while he slits a politician's throat, blood coating his fingers. Does he want to fuck the other god? 

In the few millenia that he has been alive, sex had never really crossed his mind. It's unnecessary beyond satisfying a carnal desire. He cannot have children as far as he knows and he does not want any, whatever abominations of nature that they may end up being. He thinks on it over the years though, wonders if pale skin would bruise at too harsh a touch, if those sharp canines would draw blood just as easily as their axe had. 

He shivers, then quells the desire at the core of him. 

He brings the head of the politician to the woman that hired him and she does not recoil from the sight of it. She does not thank him either, but simply hands him a stack of bank notes with a smile. Her hair is auburn, more brown than red and her smile is inviting instead of wild and challenging, but he knows what she wants. To her, he is something mysterious and exciting, something she shouldn't have. Especially given the ring on her left hand. 

Her name is Amelie, but he doesn't care about that. She tells him though, asks for his name as she strips him of his clothes and his fingers make quick work of the lacing at the back of her dress. He tells her that his name doesn't matter and her laugh is a tinkling sound, light and ladylike. Nothing like the wild carefree thing that had followed him over the edge of a cliff, black eyes watching him fall. 

He drowns that thought in her skin, takes care to be gentle because he could tear her apart so easily. He considers it, but his desire is something entirely beyond blood at the moment. She does not overact like the girls that he fooled around with before his death, does not make a sound unless he manages to pull it out of her and he likes that. She is not gentle either, nails digging into the muscles of his back, into the blonde strands of his hair as he brings her pleasure. Her voice is sweet in her ecstasy, entirely feminine and he hates it even as he chases his own pleasure between her legs. All of her is warm, womanly and pampered by the money of her lifestyle. There is no harshness, nothing wild and it brings a roughness to his actions that she enjoys judging by the way she tightens around him. She shakes, breasts rising and falling rapidly with her breathing, but she keeps him cradled in her body through her release. 

"You can finish." She says, the wrong accent curling around her words and he does, pulling out so that he can paint the flat skin of her stomach. There are shadows curling around his fingers and he twists them into her satin sheets until they fade, lets his head fall to her chest. 

"Does she know?" He looks up and she raises a brow at him. "I have been fucked by a man that longed for another before. It's in the eyes. You cannot look at me because it will break the illusion of them in your mind. Maybe I look similar, maybe that is why you accepted my offer but I am different enough that you do not want to see me." 

She untangles herself from him and grabs a cheroot from the drawer in her side table, offers him a drag before bringing it to her lips. Smoke curls around her mouth and it is both acrid and sweet. He doesn't answer her, unsure of what answer he would give, and she huffs. "You should tell her if she is not already taken, you're handsome enough. Just don't bring her any heads." 

He laughs at that, the sound huffing out of his chest in a way that he hasn't felt in a long time. Hound would probably like a skull, given the trophies of their hunts that they keep and decorate whatever home they inhabit with. But he does not want to court the other god, doesn't want anything but to bury the ache of his existence in their skin. 

He leaves Amelie to her smoke and satin sheets, finds another city to live in for a while and watches the humans build a tower that touches the heavens. The papers proclaim it to be the tallest building in the world when it is completed, the wrought-iron lattice of it casting shadows over the Champ de Mars. There is an unnecessary amount of fanfare surrounding the whole thing and soon Paris is flooded with even more people than before, all clamoring to see the world from it's tallest height. 

He watches them scurry around like ants and takes jobs from the people that can afford a murder until one day he catches sight of bright red hair falling from under the wide brim of a day-hat. It could be anyone, but he doubts any respecting french-woman would pair a chemisette and riding jacket with mens breeches. It's an outfit of dual genders and something that's sure to garner no shortage of impolite looks, but it fits them. 

The other god looks up when he sits across from them at the cafe, a finger marking their place in the book they're reading. There is a cup of tea sitting beside them, all but forgotten, and he takes it. It is not sweet or laced with citrus like is so common as of late, but earthy and smooth. 

"I didn't expect you here." They say after a while, dark eyes studying his'. "Did they finally do something to catch your interest, litli djöfull? Or perhaps you're responsible for the murders that no one speaks of."

He smiles at them, shows his teeth and they laugh. It is not like Amelie's at all. It is richer and less restrained, made all the more familiar by the strangeness of their voice. He wonders if it scares the humans, if that is why Hound never gets too close to them despite being so fascinated by them. 

"Little devil?" He asks instead of answering their question and they tap their book. 

"I have been thinking of a name for you. I never gave you one." 

"I can pick my own."

On the grass of the Champ de Mars is a gathering of ravens, the large black birds drawing the gazes of the tourists away from the tower for the briefest of moments. There are more of them hanging around the other god than he remembers and for a moment he amuses the thought that Hound is collecting them as time goes on. 

He thinks over the words that he's picked up here and settles on one, watches their eyes light up when he shares it. 

"Revenir," Coming back. 

Because that is what he does, what they have given him the ability to do. Hound is his constant, something that he has alway and possibly always will return to, even if he hates them at times. Despite the infinity of his existence, he has never once wished that he had truly died on that altar. 

Bloodhound does not say whether or not they approve of the name, but simply goes back to reading. It's a favored past-time that they had picked up after the invention of the printing press, when books became more readily available, but he has never seen them favor a genre. Instead they devour all of the knowledge they can, whether it be fact or fiction. He wonders if they have a library in their home for their favorite books, if it also holds the trophies of their hunts. 

"I can hear you thinking." Hound says after a few moments and he realizes that their attention is on him rather than the book. 

"Have you ever fucked them, one of the humans?" It is not a question that either of them expect him to ask and the other god blinks, caught off guard. 

Still, they answer honestly, voice wistful in a way he's never heard from them before. "Once, with a Gaelic during landnámsöld. I do not remember his name now but he did not question what I am. He thought I was vísendakona and I never corrected him. We were not gentle with each other. I did not want him to be and perhaps part of him knew that. Why do you ask?"

"Did you love him?" He asks instead of answering their question and they frown, dark eyes studying him. He keeps his expression blank. It is not sentimentality that drives his curiosity and he realizes that he has never thought of the other god as a creature with needs like his own. He knows of their solitude, he recognizes their beauty and hates their softness for the short-lived people around them. But he does not know them, both in the biblical and practical sense. At some point in his time wandering the earth he had begun to think less of them just like he does the humans, apathetic of their existence outside of his own craving for an equal to sharpen his teeth on. 

It's a sobering thought, one that would make anger spark in their eyes if he expressed it. He wants that ire, that fire, but now is not the time. Later, when they're not in a public square surrounded by hundreds, when it is just the two of them again. 

"I have lived too long for love." Their voice cuts through his thoughts, then deeper into the heart of him. "Again, why do you ask?" 

"I met a woman." 

Understanding lights upon their face. "Jæja... Be careful with her."

"I do not want her." 

"Then why do you speak of her?" They are curious now, completely focused on him and he enjoys the feeling, revels in the attention and the frown pulling at their lips. 

"Because, she thought I was in love with another." He says. The other god is not slow, they understand what he means, but he wants to see their reaction. Do they still think of him as a child of their making or as his own being? It's a courtesy he hasn't extended to them, but they are different, more considerate than he will ever be. More caring. 

Red flashes in their eyes before they blink it away, a sentence starting then stopping in their throat until finally, "I do not want your love."

It aches, his hands clenching into fists in his lap at their words, but he is not hurt by it. In fact, he's relieved, because he does not have love to give them. Neither of them have need of such a fleeting emotion, not when it would create a mess of their time together. 

"And if I wanted something different?" He asks, watches their head tilt in thought before their eyes somehow darken further, a smile revealing a hint of the sharp teeth that he wishes would grace his skin. He stands and offers his arm, offers more, and dares them to accept. 

Their page is bookmarked, a pale hand slipping over his forearm as they stand and in the square, the ravens take flight. 

…

He is not gentle with Hound like he was with Amelie. He takes what they give him, then takes more, the hands framing the other god's waist tight enough to shatter bone if they were a fragile thing. But they aren't, they never will be and they meet him with the same roughness, tumbling him over in their bed so that they're in control. He gives it, tangles one of his hands in red hair instead and pulls while the other guide's their hips. 

"Could I break you?" He asks, shivers when half-lidded eyes catch his own. 

"You would be the only one that ever tried." And it might be a challenge or it might be an expression of something they long for, of a need just as dark and devouring as his own. He files it away for later, if there is a later, and focuses on them now. They moan when they take him in and sigh when they pull away, but his favorite sound is the growl that rumbles in their throat when he bites the pale skin of their collarbone. They return the action and their canines draw blood just like he thought they would, the pain of it mixing with the pleasure running through his veins. 

Their mouth stays at his throat for a long moment, a small eternity, and he knows that they are both thinking the same thing. What if they bite deeper, a predator ending its prey before it can attempt to struggle away? He tightens the hand in their hair and they shudder, releasing his neck with a soothing flick of their tongue. When they lean up, their eyes are that familiar glowing red, high on power as they lick their lips and he aches. 

Aches to see them shake and beg, aches to make them fall apart in his hands. It's almost violent, the need at the core of him, but he knows that they would not allow themself to be used for his pleasure alone. He lets their hair free, watches it tumble down their chest so that he can pull them closer and digs his fingers into their skin. They follow the contact, legs tightening where they're kneeling above him and they are warm, burning hot like the fire inside of his chest. 

"Is this what you wanted?" Hound asks as they follow the rhythm of his hips and he shakes his head, because he wants so much more. "Then take it. I want a challenge, not a quick roll." 

So he does. His nails draw lines on the skin of their thighs, their back, their arms before his hands settle on their wrists. The bones there are delicate, easy to break on anyone that is not them and he tightens his hold until they suck in a breath. It comes out in a moan when he shifts their position, gets them under him and bottoms out inside of them. They press a kiss to his neck, teeth skimming over the skin there as he brings their pace to something more brutal, something harsh. 

He is not loving and they do not want him to be, so he pushes their limits, holds them on the edge until finally, finally they beg. It is such a small thing, almost a whisper but he hears it nonetheless and brings a hand between them to give them the release that they're looking for. They fall apart underneath him, voice dragging out a moan as the entirety of them seems to clamp around him. He doesn't notice the hand around his throat until it tightens as well, drawing his breath short until his lungs ache. 

Red eyes meet cold blue, burn into him as they release him and he comes. He doesn't bother pulling out and by the satisfied smile that graces Hound's lips, he knows that they do not mind. Instead, they shift, stretching out their muscles with a soft sound before melting back into the bed. He does not pull them to his side, but instead lays beside them and watches as the marks from his fingers and teeth settle into their skin, dark blemishes that the other god studies with interest. 

"I expected blood." They say after they're done checking themself over and his head jerks up in surprise. Their chest rises with a laugh. "Not like that. I meant… áverki. You did not hurt me."

"Did you want me to?" 

"You like to cause pain." But it is not an answer. He looks over at them, then at all the bruises littering their skin. He did not break skin and perhaps they wanted him to.

Instead of responding, he gets up to hover over them and captures their lips in a kiss. Hound pushes into it readily, tongue slipping into his mouth to deepen it as they grab hold of his hair and he pulls back. He sees something flash in their eyes, something like hurt but he ignores it and bites into the plump skin of their bottom lip until he tastes blood on his tongue. 

"Better?" He asks, licking it from his lips as he falls back onto the bed and their hand comes up to press against their mouth. Their eyes are dark glimmering pools as they prod at the abused flesh. Then they smile, laying back down beside him.

And if they end up closer in the middle of the night, he does not push them away.

…

He does not see them for another three centuries, not until the world is alight with technology while the land itself dies. The earth that he has walked for so long is barren, resources sucked dry. The skin-suits scramble for an answer to their imminent extinction, but Hound is more optimistic than he is about humanity's future. 

"They'll find a way." They say, eyes skimming over the Icelandic shoreline. They had taken to returning to watch over their favored people more and more over the years, but he cannot begrudge them the sentimentality. Not when this place offers them a home that he will never give them. 

The humans do find a way. After decades of strife and power struggles, they manage to touch the heavens, taking life beyond their solar system. Earth and its surrounding planets become the core of life in the universe and still, humanity reaches further. Hound follows the descendants of their people off of Earth and he follows them. It is not because he cares, he tells himself, lips curling in distaste at the thought. But when Hound finds him during the journey to the Frontier and seeks comfort in his skin, he gives it. 

And then they are gone, wandering the new planets around them in search of a home. 

He spends their time apart taking advantage of the lawlessness that governs the Outlands, becoming an assassin once more. Humanity has blossomed in its new environment, trillions of them settling all over the galaxy, and he takes his pick of their numbers. He is in the Core System when the war that the skin suits are waging cuts off access to the Frontier and although it is only five years, he despises the knowledge that he cannot get back to Hound if he ever felt inclined to. 

So he finds them once he can and pulls them into a fight that lasts until they are both bloody and exhausted, shadows wrapping around his skin as their eyes glow a brilliant red. Still, he wants more, aches to take a piece of them now that he knows they can be lost. He settles for all of them, settles for their voice going low and husky when he fucks them on a pile of furs. 

The other god takes just as much he does, fingers pulling the shadows from his skin and the blood from his veins and the core of him hums in response. 

He is not attached, he is not in love, but he does not want to live in a universe where he loses the only other creature that he considers an equal. So he stays for a while and they do not comment on it. They invite him to hunt and he watches that wild pride spark in their eyes when a new beast is conquered. Sometimes they pass the knowledge they acquire to their warrior people, but mostly they watch, not wanting to interfere too heavily in the humans' lives. 

The ravens travel with them and integrate themselves into the wildlife of the god's new home, generations of them flourishing alongside the warriors that take it as a blessing of the All-Father. 

Eventually though even the threat of losing the other god cannot keep his nature at bay and he leaves again. He stays in the Outlands this time and watches the war that the humans wage, taking from both sides as he sees fit. He is not interested in their politics or who deserves to win in the end, but he does enjoy the chase that some of them give. There is a hierarchy there, among the men and women that fight and at the top of that chain are the pilots. He likes them the most, appreciates their reflexes and the abilities that technology has given them. It keeps things interesting, lets him test himself in a way that only Hound had ever let him do previously, but still they die for all of their efforts. 

It would be disappointing if he expected better of the skin-suits. But he doesn't, erasing evidence of his existence and leaving their bodies to be recovered or forgotten, he doesn't care which. Despite all of his care or maybe due to a lack thereof, he catches the interest of the select few that have decided to install themselves as the leaders over the hundreds of planets that humanity inhabits. Their offer is of the same business that he had conducted on Earth, a life in exchange for money and he accepts. 

His targets are easy ones, smoke and blood following in his wake until his contacts within the Syndicate begin to look at him with fear in their eyes. He wonders if they question the fact that he does not age, knows that he can disappear if that curiosity grows sinister. For now though, the Syndicate and the IMC have more to worry about in the form of the Frontier Wars. They give him jobs, give him a way to shed blood that is more interesting than killing random inhabitants of the Outlands, and do not question his existence. 

Eventually the war ends and the Frontier is left to govern itself. If he thought it was lawless before, it is nothing compared to the filth that emerges once the battle-torn planets are left to themselves. The Syndicate calls on him more frequently and he lets them, knows that it will become a small blip in the time of his existence. 

He finds Hound on Talos once he grows bored and learns that they have been meddling more than he originally thought. Their axe is gone, passed on to the chief of a tribe that practice the old ways, along with one of their ravens, and he scowls. And then he learns of the child that is named in their honor, the name Blóðhundur gracing their lips with obvious pride. 

"You're planning something." He says when they tumble him to the ground among the trees and even without their favored weapon the ensuing fight between them is a satisfying one. Their eyes glimmer at him knowingly but they do not answer him, not with words at least. No, they answer him with a strength that makes his blood sing in his veins, harsh and full of energy until he aches for something that is not the battle that they have had for centuries with no clear winner. The two of them are equally matched, but Hound shows him why they were the first, leaving him sore and tired. 

They soothe the pain of their fight away with their touch, bringing him pleasure that is like fire and he tells himself that it is not a farewell. He gives them two years of this, of days and nights spent together until he wakes up alone and an explosion of ice graces their home with endless winter. 

The research site at the heart of the planet is abandoned in the aftermath, the god's people adjusting to their new way of life and he spends a decade watching a child with scarlet hair grow, watches as they are given a trial to prove their worth among their people. 

They do not pass and he is disgusted at the faith that Hound placed upon such a weak creature, a child that weeps for their family as if that can bring a chief back from the grave. Only one creature knows how to do such a thing and they are encased in ice, guarded by a beast that the humans cannot kill. The child chases after the creature nonetheless and when they return there is a familiar red glow gracing their axe and a raven flying to perch on their arm in a way that startles them. 

But he knows that the creature is simply going home and cannot say whether or not he can do the same.

…

Bloodhound does't officially meet him until they are an adult. He joins the bloodsport that they compete in once he catches word of it during his travels, hears them call upon the All-Father for sight and knows that it is an entirely different god that makes their eyes glow red. 

The hunter moves with the same quiet grace that their namesake had, delighting in the thrill of the games even if that all too familiar honor makes him grit his teeth when they talk. Still, he finds himself on their team more often than not, gives them the protection of his shadows and shivers when he hears a voice that is neither feminine or masculine growl through the earpiece that the skin-suits in charge of the games ask him to wear. 

They favor snipers while he prefers to get his hands dirty, but occasionally they draw the axe from their belt with a playful twirl and he can't help the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

That doesn't stop him from keeping them at a distance though, because he knows that they will die all too quickly. Whether it be due to time or in the bloodsport, they will cease to exist. He isn't sure if the other god knows this, if this is their way of finally getting to rest after an infinite amount of time while also allowing him to keep their company for a little while longer. He cannot ask and not knowing makes him harsh, makes him brutal both in and outside of the ring. 

The only person that does not face his wrath is Hound, who watches him with eyes that are not dark enough on the few occasions that he is allowed to see them. In between seasons, they offer to let him hunt with them once they return home and do not look hurt when he declines. They think that he is rude and cruel, tell him so when they spar during training and the honesty of their words makes him laugh. They do not know that the only person that keeps the shadows within him is locked inside of their skin, that they will one day steal the other god away to a place where he cannot follow. At least, that is what he thinks until one day they pull him aside by one of the Epicenter's spires. 

"I do not want your grief, litli djöfull." They say after they switch off their earpiece and something he cannot name flares in his chest. 

"Then what do you want?" It is a snarl, their head tilting in response to the harshness of his tone.

"Your time." They respond. "It is all I ever wanted. There will be other Blóðhundurs after this one. I am not leaving you." 

And he knows that he will not leave them either, that he will find them for as long as they allow him to. 

Hound turns their earpiece back on and apologizes to Wraith for the silence, their teammate telling both of them to hurry up. 

"We have a minute before the ring closes." She says and Revenant could care less, because they have so much more time than that. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So this took a little under a week for me to write and I had no plan as I was doing so. Hopefully that doesn't show too much. I tried. 
> 
> A lot of the tone for this story came from a [playlist I made on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5kaMGmrekbuNsEg1YTQfgG?si=jQTAQyi2S_itonKMPopDIQ) I always enjoy listening to music when I write, but I figured Id share this one cause it has a vibe, ya know? 
> 
> Let me know if you'd like to see any of this story from Hound's POV. And as always, Comment and Kudos are very much appreciated.


End file.
